Jasper smiled a smile that was as relieved as he genuinely felt. “Thanks, Chris. I really appreciate it. Do you live around here or, uh…” A horrifying thought occurred. “You don’t… live in the bar, do you?”
“Only when I’m awake,” said the werespider. “And it’s not Chris, by the way. No sire in their right mind would name their fledgling ‘Chris.’”
Werespiders were a rarity, hardly ever seen, seldom taken alive. Jasper knew the basics of them—their fatal allergy to gold, their ability to change shapes into large spiderlike creatures, the hypnotic thrall in their eyes, and their highly effective pheromones, which drew humans to them like pigs to slaughter. He didn’t know their sires named them when they were reborn.
The demon offered him his hand. “It’s Crimson. Crimson Apocalypse.”
“Jasper Craig.” Jasper gave his hand a firm shake. He started to let go, but Crimson’s fingers tightened, sharp focus cutting through his woozy gaze. He pulled him an inch closer. His voice was dangerously low.
“Y’know, most people react when I say that name. Can’t help but notice you didn’t.”
“Do they usually react by laughing in your face?” Jasper laughed, hoping it sounded less nervous than it really was. When the demon didn’t return his smile, he cleared his throat. “Look, man, everything I own is in a bag on the floor right beside us. I have no place to live. Your name could be Jack the Ripper for all I care.”
Crimson’s grip tightened just slightly.
He looked a thousand years old.
He looked nineteen.
He let go, spinning back to face the counter and pouring himself another shot. “Mm-hm… Okay. Whatever ya say, man.”
Chapter Four
—
Welcome to “Paradise”
The bar was open until two a.m.
Crimson made no effort to leave, even when the owners flipped on all the lights and started shooing stragglers away. More people had come and gone than Jasper expected, with the bar filling up and becoming noisy from eleven until after one.
An eclectic mix of people wandered in and out, college students and grizzled old men, young professionals and women with lines around their eyes and too much makeup, girls with tattoos on every exposed piece of skin and boys with piercings. They were all human, not a demon among them except for Crimson. Many seemed to recognize the werespider’s human persona, catching him with friendly slaps to the back and calling him by his false name. Crimson was as deceptively friendly as he had been with Jasper the night they met. He wafted from group to group, finding free drinks wherever he went, hustling games of pool and poker, and smoking despite the many prohibitory signs suggesting he shouldn’t. Trying to keep up with him was impossible, and the constant sound of raised voices was giving Jasper a headache, so he settled at the bar to observe instead.
“Hey, kid, you sure you don’t want something to drink?” asked Nikki, mixing and pouring a complicated round even as she spoke. “I can put you on Chris’s tab.”
Jasper glanced across the room to where Crimson was thoroughly distracted by a game of quarters. Then back at Nikki. “No, thanks. But, uh, how long have you two known each other? You seem pretty close.”
“Me and Chris?” Her demeanor changed on a dime, suddenly nervous. She grabbed a rag from a bucket of sanitizer and began needlessly wiping the bar in front of Jasper. “I dunno. We go way back. He’s like a fixture around here, y’know? Helps look after the place, makes sure no one causes too much of a fuss.”
“Like a bouncer?”
Nikki giggled. “No. Not exactly. But yeah, sort of, I guess.”
She didn’t seem hypnotized or bewitched. Apart from being a little tired, her eyes were as clear and blue as a sparkling day. But if the werespider frequented this place, she surely would have noticed something off about him.
A familiar, then. And by that virtue, not worth inquiring further. The werespider obviously had some bargain with her or had her so tightly wrapped around his little finger that she didn’t care if he killed her patrons. Familiars were no better than the monsters they served. “I’ll just have another water.”
When the crowd started to thin out, Crimson settled back at the bar, but Nikki continued to bring him drinks long after last call.
It wasn’t until the far-off rumble of thunder threatened rain that he dragged himself off the barstool and headed for the door, barking for Jasper to come with him, even though the Hunter was already right at his heel.
Storm clouds rolled overhead, the first drops of rain already breaking loose. Crimson assured him it wasn’t far but didn’t seem to be in any great hurry as they walked side by side past ruined buildings and run-down storefronts with blacked-out windows. A faded green sign posted crookedly at the intersection of a dead-end street read “Huntsman Avenue.” From there, the lackluster state of the buildings only grew sadder.
They finally stopped in front of an old Victorian house, now little more than a beaten-down shack, slumping on its cracked and sinking foundation. It was set further back from the road than its neighbors, the overgrown hedges out front half-masking its ivy-covered facade from view. Most windows were broken and boarded over by pieces of weather-beaten scrap lumber. The wide yard and wraparound porch were completely overtaken by ivy and weeds, sloping as if it might collapse if you so much as thought about walking on it. Vines twisted and snared around the spikes of the wrought-iron fence that lined the property, leaves ruffling eerily in the rising wind.
The old gate looked like it might not have moved in decades, but when Crimson lifted the latch, it swung inward with only a low creak of protest. The path beyond was cobbled in stepping-stones. Nature had dug her way underneath the flat pieces of rock and forced them out of alignment, so the walkway weaved and jutted drunkenly to the crumbling porch.
With the wind howling and the rain gathering strength, Jasper sheltered under the terrace and waited impatiently for Crimson to find his keys in one of the many pockets of his long coat. He got the door unlocked and both of them inside just as the storm clouds cracked open and started pouring down sheets of heavy rain.
Flashes of lightning shined through the slats on the boarded windows, illuminating the interior in brief bursts of static blue-gray that were followed closely by booming rumbles of thunder. In the flashing light, the inside of the house looked like something out of a gothic horror story—wallpaper peeling in narrow sheets, floorboards cracked and rotting, old paintings hanging crookedly or fallen entirely from the walls.
Jasper flipped on the screen of his phone and shined it around to get a better look. The foyer was dominated by a large stairway. He jumped a little when, halfway up, the shine caught the sleeve of Crimson’s jacket—Jasper hadn’t felt him move past him nor heard him start up the steps, and this eerie behavior combined with the practically nonexistent lighting made him suddenly more aware of the weight of the gun holstered on his hip.
“You’d better come upstairs,” said the werespider, his voice heavy with reluctance. “There’s no electricity down here, and the rain will get in if it keeps up.” Behind him, the steps stretched up to a darkened landing on the second floor.
Well. Now that he was standing alone in the nest of a very dangerous demon and admitted killer, he really wished he wasn’t, but he followed the spider up the stairs, listening to them creak and squeak and expecting to fall through the bottom of them every step of the way. A hallway off the stairs was swallowed in darkness, as was the next flight that the werespider turned up, disappearing up to the third floor. The hallway to the right of the landing was marginally brighter and hemmed with cardboard boxes and crates whose contents were overspilling with papers and books and all different manner of useless trinkets. Crimson weaved through the cluttered maze, making barely a sound. Gold-tasseled runners, frayed and stained and faded to a murky pink, lined the warped hardwood floor. The walls, decorated every few feet by burned-out sconces, groaned forlornly. It was impossible to guess what color t
hey had once been.
Crimson came to a halt.
At first, Jasper thought he must have gotten turned around, because the hallway ended in a wall and not a very impressive one at that. Then the werespider reached out and opened it, and Jasper felt stupid, wondering how he couldn’t have seen the door that was so clearly there all along.
“Magic?” asked Jasper, surprised that he hadn’t noticed a glamor.
“It’s an old druidic warding charm.”
“I’ve never met a demon who could do magic,” offered Jasper, meaning it as a compliment.
“Well, you still haven’t.” Crimson reached into the room and gave a drawstring overhead a brisk tug. The lights popped on, revealing another stairwell. These steps were in a better state of repair, almost new but for slight wear and tear.
Jasper followed Crimson up the stairwell, into the attic. He looked around and breathed a sigh of relief.
The room was entirely different from the rest of the house in the sense that it actually looked habitable. The ceiling was high and arched with globe-like glass light fixtures attached to the exposed wooden rafters. To the right of the stairwell, a long counter divided a quadrant of the room into a small kitchenette, complete with cabinets, table, dishwasher, and refrigerator. In front of him, two beds rested on a low platform underneath a large curtained window, and in front of that, a leather couch, two armchairs, and a coffee table were clustered on a carpeted section of the floor around two televisions, one broadcasting a black-and-white security feed of the property, the other dark.
Crimson shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the hook at the top of the stairwell. “It’s not really much.”
“No, it’s, uh… nice. Just not what I was expecting.” Jasper wondered if it would be rude to ask him what, exactly, a werespider needed a kitchen for. He tried for a more tactful question instead. “Have you lived here long?”
“You could say that.”
“And it’s… just you, right?” He couldn’t help but notice there were two beds.
“Not anymore,” replied Crimson, but his levity was belied by the look he gave him—all piercing, dark eyes and heavy brows. “But if you’re asking if there’s a pack involved, the answer is no.” He kicked off his boots and pushed them under the bed closest to the window, then unlaced the holsters on his hips and strung the straps through the headboard so that the ivory butt of one revolver hung in easy reach. “It’s just me.”
It was highly unusual for a demon to live all on his own. Charlie had said most of his old pack had been killed during a raid, but that had been almost twenty years ago, and Jasper would have expected that he’d have been accepted into a new pack by now. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
Crimson threw himself down on the bed with a yawn. “Now who’s the one asking a lot of questions?”
“Just wondering if I have to, like, sleep on the couch or if the bed is cool.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather share this one?”
God, this guy was persistent. And impossible to gauge. “No, thank you.”
Crimson lifted one shoulder. “Suit yourself. That mattress is awful though.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Jasper set his backpack at the foot of the second bed. The demon made him extremely self-conscious of every move he made. He was relieved to learn he wouldn’t be thrown in with a whole pack of them. It was bad enough having to keep up the charade with just one. He looked around again. The only doors were the one at the bottom of the stairs, and what was obviously a closet, one door hanging open to show the dresser inside, overstuffed with clothes. “Do you have, like, a bathroom or…?”
“It’s on the third level, down the hall. I was gonna put one in here.” Usually, this phrase was followed by an explanation, but this time it wasn’t. “I think it all still works and everything. I know the shower does.”
“Alright,” said Jasper.
“Just don’t touch any of the sconces.”
“Alright,” said Jasper again, then, “Wait, why?”
“Just… like… don’t touch them,” repeated Crimson. “In fact, try not to touch much of anything.” Then, grabbing the edge of the comforter, he rolled himself into the blanket and dragged the pillow underneath his head. “Hit the lights on the way out, would ya?”
Jasper took his bag with him to the bathroom, shining his phone up along the wall as he went. As far as he could tell, there was nothing strange about any of the sconces other than them being ugly and gothic, like something from a cheesy horror movie. The werespider was probably just fucking with him, trying to keep him off-kilter. Goddamned demons.
The fluorescent lights on the bathroom ceiling buzzed and flickered when he flipped the switch, revealing a gray tile floor that he desperately hoped wasn’t originally white. An old claw-foot tub, showerhead attached, took up the majority of the space. Its deep red shower curtain didn’t match anything in the bathroom. Well, unless some very suspicious stains near the sink and on the floor counted.
A soft creak drew his attention down the hall behind him.
He froze, half in, half out of the doorway, carefully watching the darkness. Listening. Every instinct, inborn and trained, told him he needed to get the hell out of this place. The werespider was acting friendly, but Jasper was pretty sure it was just an act. He was old, he was bored, and he was toying with him. The moment the game ceased to entertain him…
There was another creak.
Closer?
Jasper dipped to his backpack and drew out a stronger flashlight.
He darted the beam back and forth between the cardboard-box pillars. A BOOM of thunder rattled through the house, making the bathroom light flicker. He saw—honest to God saw—the demon watching him from the shadows, until he steadied his hand and realized it was only an old worn shirt hanging out of the edge of one of the boxes.
He steadied his breath. Some demons played very elaborately with their prey, but this one couldn’t even be bothered to mop his bathroom or keep track of his keys. He probably wasn’t patiently awaiting an opportunity to act out a scene from Psycho.
Unless…
That was just exactly what he wanted him to think.
Shut up, shut up. Jasper stepped into the bathroom very quickly, closing the door immediately behind him. He threw the lock—flimsy in the beaten frame—and took several steps back until he was almost touching the other wall.
Waited.
Waited.
Not a creak. Not a stir.
The lights flickered twice more, always with the rumble of nearby thunder. Cautiously, Jasper washed his face in the sink, the water warm and the basin clean, and brushed his teeth. The toilet was less clean, obviously unused for a long time, the water having left a rust-colored ring where it rested, but the flush worked. Within the wall, the pipes screamed their protest at having to work.
Gripping the heavy flashlight with a white-knuckled hand, Jasper slipped back into the hallway, eyes darting through the many shadows, expecting something at every move. He reached the attic unharmed and went up the short flight of stairs.
Crimson was right where he had left him, asleep in bed.
Chapter Five
—
The Crystal Ballroom
The first night Jasper didn’t sleep at all. He couldn’t even entertain the idea with the demon so nearby. Crimson, it seemed, was not so bothered.
While the demon slept, Jasper took the opportunity to poke around the upstairs apartment, careful not to make a sound. Along with a sizeable collection of liquor bottles and cigarette packs, Crimson also had a large movie collection, mostly DVDs but some VHS tapes, and more titles than Jasper hoped to recognize. They didn’t seem to be organized in any recognizable way, simply shoved in any available space. The books were disappointing, a few stuck wherever they would fit, less than a dozen overall. He picked up a faded copy of Don Quixote and started to look through it, but it was so old and so well-read that he was half-afraid it would fall apart
in his hands, and he put it back.
It was impossible to describe the style of the decor because nothing appeared to match anything else. The couch was an overstuffed black leather affair from the ’80s, pockmarked with cigarette burns and duct-taped to keep the stuffing in. The armchairs to either side were considerably older. One was an ugly paisley thing, green and fuchsia, definitely a relic. The other was brown leather, with a pull lever to recline. It reminded him of one Charlie had when Jasper was barely five.
A glass-top coffee table, covered in empty bottles, Marlboro packages, and general junk, rested between the couch and the TV, while the series of mismatched throw rugs and runners carpeting the hardwood floor in pathways could have spanned from the Victorian era to the early 2000s. A black suit of armor, posed upright with a lance in its grip, stood half-hidden behind a fallen tasseled midnight-blue drape, giving Jasper a slight start as it was revealed. Hidden behind the drape and suit of armor was a badly chipped baby grand piano, alongside a dresser wedged against an unused brick fireplace, the mantel above cluttered with more junk. Jasper carefully rehung the drape, watching Crimson from the corner of his eye as he did so.
Weapons were everywhere, scattered about in the open, on shelves and tables and stashed away in closets and cupboards, which were empty of all foods except a large canister of coffee grinds and a few long-forgotten cans of fruit salad. Mostly the weapons were knives, ranging in size and material, but there were others too, guns and throwing stars, brass knuckles, and even a quiver and bow stuck in the top of the closet. What he assumed to be swords were wrapped in cloth and leaning against the inside wall of the closet. Jasper left them there, not wanting to risk waking the spider with the sound.
A heavy wooden behemoth of a trunk sat at the foot of the werespider’s bed. Or perhaps chest would have been a better word. It looked like something you’d find in the hold of a sunken pirate ship, but it was plastered with travel stickers, the oldest dated 1890. Jasper tried the latch and felt a sharp sting like a needle. He bit his tongue to suppress a yelp and jerked his hand away. A small bead of blood clotted as quickly as it bloomed.
Strangers in the Night Page 4